Gifts, Gifts, Gifts
by Andreas K N
Summary: Draco is a spoiled brat. Or so Harry claims. (HD slash)


**GIFTS, GIFTS, GIFTS**

* * *

'I want gifts!'

'Hm? What?' The demand had come rather out of the blue winter sky, and Harry couldn't quite make the proper mental connections amidst all the ankle-deep snow.

'It'll be Christmas soon! I want gifts! Lots!' Draco splashed and bounced through the snow. Harry idly wondered why it didn't slow his boyfriend down so much. Maybe Draco was just lithe enough to float on water crystals. Maybe he wasn't paying attention to the snow and it had, in turn, given up on clinging.

Maybe it was all the arm-waving.

'Oh. And how much - exactly - is lots?'

'Hm,' Draco frowned, stopping his snow-hopping progress. Harry plodded onwards. 'I lost count.' Harry stopped.

'You've made a _list_?'

'Of course.'

'And - it's a long one?'

'Very long.'

Harry snorted. 'And your mother will cover most of it, I suppose?'

'Goodness no. She gets her own.'

'A _list_ of her own?'

'That's what I said. But, to the point: You are going to give me lots and lots and lots of gifts, right?'

Harry turned. Harry sighed. It was a sigh reserved especially for Draco, the depth of which could be said to symbolise their love, or just the ensuing frustration. 'You've heard that Christmas is the season of giving, I suppose?' Draco nodded. 'Not of getting.'

Draco looked perplexed. 'If there's giving, there must be getting.'

'Well, yes. But you're supposed to _get_ joy _from_ giving!'

Draco beamed. 'That's settled then. You get joy, I get gifts! And if you give me lots and lots of gifts, I can guarantee ample amounts of joy.'

'That is - that is just so - so—' He would have said 'you' but there was too much love on his part for the personal pronoun in question that it just wouldn't have the right ring to it. Meanwhile, Draco rummaged in the satchel that had nearly exploded post-Hogsmeade. He seemed not to be listening, and Harry settled for '_selfish!_'

Draco glanced up, hand halfway out of the bag, a lengthy piece of paper snaking out. He frowned. His hand fell out of the bag, the paper curling onto his leg. 'Oh,' he said.

Harry crossed his arms, leaning back ever so slightly. 'Yes.'

'You,' Draco bit his lip, 'think I'm selfish?'

'Well, what would you call it?' Harry snapped. This wasn't good. Draco usually paid no heed whatsoever to Harry's complaints about his lack of decent (read: Gryffindor) character. Now, suddenly, he did. It was quite disconcerting.

Draco quirked an eyebrow. A smile sneaked onto the left side of his face. 'I would call it giving you a chance to do some giving and get that warm fuzzy feeling you Gryffindors seem so keen on.'

'Haven't you ever heard it's the thought that counts?'

Draco looked lost in thought. He came back with a sudden grin. 'Yes.' He walked up to Harry. 'I have.' He pressed the paper into Harry's arms. 'Think about this.' And he kept on walking towards the distant castle.

Harry grabbed the paper before it fell to the ground. He turned around, waving the lengthy paper like some papery handkerchief in a cheap goodbye. 'Is this your _list_?'

'No,' called Draco, still walking, 'it's my last will and testament! I'm off to chop off my pretty head!'

'Fine! Then I won't have to get you any gifts!'

'Obviously!'

* * *

'Obviously, you're upset,' said Hermione, following Harry's explosive entrance and darkly deflated posture, his nails digging into the hapless armchair.

'I'm not upset,' said Harry, trying to make the fire explode by staring at it. 'I'm angry!'

Hermione sighed. She knew that look. 'What did he do this time?'

'Gave me a list.'

Hermione blinked. She repeated the procedure thrice, but reality refused to straighten up. 'Of - things to do to annoy you?' She had always secretly suspected such a list existed. It would be perfectly in character for the little git, after all.

'No,' growled Harry. 'Of gifts he expects me to get him.'

'Oh.'

'Yeah.'

'It's long?'

'Yeah.'

'But surely his mother will—'

'Ha! She gets one of her own! This one's all mine!'

'Oh.'

'Yeah!'

'It's very long?'

Harry pulled the scrunched-up piece of paper out of his pocket, throwing it to Hermione. '_You_ read it. I can't. I might make the tower explode.'

'Ehm,' said Hermione, un-scrunching the paper, 'right. But really—' She read the first wish. 'Ehm. Don't you think _you_ should read this. I mean.'

'No!' Harry jumped up, staring at her. The fire backlighting his tousled hair made him look positively demonic. 'I want you to see just what a presumptuous little self-obsessed prick he is!' Hermione read on, running on pure shock.

'But,' she tore her eyes from the paper, applying them instead to gazing at Harry in an imploring manner. 'But I really don't think…' She was growing quite flustered, and not just from the nearby flames. 'I mean, it's _your_ wish list!'

'No! It's the wish list of the world's most spoiled little posh git!' With all the arm-waving and robe-flapping, Harry looked rather like a huge, demented bat; an unhinged Count Dracula. Hermione sought the relative normality of paper to escape this disturbing vision of Draco-induced insanity.

She shouldn't have.

'Oh my!' said she.

'That bad, eh?' said he.

'Nrfgl,' quoth she.

'I'll just forward it to his mother. It's all her fault anyway,' proclaimed he.

'I don't think that's a - good idea,' sputtered she, amidst much coughing.

'Why? She's obviously used to satisfying his every whim,' huffed Harry. 'Why are you looking at me like that?'

Trying to break out of her wide-eyed goldfish impression, Hermione turned once more to reading. It was a strategy that had always served her well.

Oh, how things change.

'You know,' said Harry, 'it's really not funny.'

Hermione stopped giggling, turned the offending piece of paper around and thrust it at Harry's chest. Chest. She giggled again. 'I,' said she. 'I think I need to - rest for a while. I - well, you - you should read it. It's quite,' she searched for the right word, '_interesting_,' would have to do.

As she rushed out of the room, Ron made a startled entrance. 'Ey? What's the… Hermione?' The door slammed. Ron turned wide eyes to Harry. 'What's that all about then?'

'This!' said Harry, proffering the lengthy piece of paper. 'It's positive proof of just how selfish and - and _greedy_ Malfoy really is!' It was always _Malfoy_ with Ron. When he was _Draco_, there was no sense in talking to Ron about him.

Ron snatched the list out of Harry's hand, grinning wickedly. This was Christmas come early!

He began to read, and the grin faltered.

'See?' said Harry. 'He's such a—'

'Creep!'

'Yeah! He - what?'

'Gah!' hissed Ron, losing the colour that Hermione had just gained.

'What? Has he wished for - a Death Eater tool-kit or something? What? Why are you making that noise? I'm sure it's not hexed. I mean, I touched it and Hermione and… Wait, where are you going?'

The list fluttered to the floor. The door slammed on a note of 'SHOWER!'

Harry stooped, his hand wrapped around the crumpled paper, he straightened, and he read the first wish:

"Molten chocolate and a large brush."

Harry blinked, and continued onwards to:

"Whipped cream."

He could almost have anticipated "You for a platter" if he hadn't been in a rather turbulent state of shock.

"A thousand hungry kisses."

"A blanket of you."

"Large amounts of bodily fluids. The non-infantile kind."

It went downwards and upwards and round, round, round from that point on.

Harry had people to talk to.

But the shower and the resting might take some time.

Which left one.

* * *

'Do you mean to say this is your Christmas wish list?'

Draco glanced up from his parchment, lips quirking into a sly smile. 'Yes.'

Harry stepped further into the small room. 'No.'

Draco sat up straight, and his smile fell right off. 'What?' He looked utterly perplexed.

'This isn't your wish list.'

Draco leaned forward, peering at the dangling piece of paper. 'Sure it is. My magnificent hand is all over it.'

'No, it isn't.' Harry grinned. 'It's mine.'

Draco leaned back, allowing his fallen smile to regain its footing. 'Oh, really?'

'Yeah.' Harry licked his lips. 'And you know how I promote the joy of giving…'

Draco was on his feet and in Harry's face in a matter of seconds. 'And I'm _quite_ up for some _getting_.'

'Oh, the getting is good,' said Harry, pushing Draco backwards onto the small desk.

Draco grinned. 'Then get on with the giving and stop trying to be witty. It doesn't suit you.'

'Your wish list is my command.'

Trousers bunched around his ankles, Draco ensnared Harry with his legs and pulled him into the first of a thousand hungry kisses.

And then Harry proceeded to spoil Draco with premature Christmas gifts aplenty.

There was simply no refusing him.

It was probably genetic.

Spoiled brat.


End file.
